' 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
Kate  Gordon  Uoore 


^^/77/>*^ 


THE   CUP   OF  YOUTH 

AND   OTHER   POEMS 


BY 


S.  WEIR  MITCHELL,  M.D.,  LL.D.,  Harv. 

AUTHOR  OP  "  THB  HILL  OF  STONBS  AND  OTHBR  POEMS,"   "  A  MASQUE 
AND  OTHER  POEMS  " 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

«?&  Cam6ri&0e 
1889 


Copyright,  1889, 
BY  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL. 

All  rights  reserved. 


Tk*  Rivtrtidt  frets,  Cambridge  : 
Printed  by  H.  O.  Hooghtoo  &  Company. 


sr>eDtcaton>  (Epistle 

TO 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

DEAR  DOCTOR : 

When  I  was  a  young  man  your  kindly  advice 
kept  me  from  inflicting  a  volume  of  verse  on  the 
public,  by  which  it  would  not  have  been  profited, 
and  by  which  I  should  assuredly  have  been  in 
jured. 

Accept  this  dedication  as  in  some  shape  the  ex 
pression  of  my  thanks  for  that  valuable  service, 
which,  with  the  many  other  kindnesses  I  owe  to 
your  friendship,  has  no  doubt  long  since  slipped 
out  of  your  memory. 

With  constant  esteem, 

Your  friend, 

THE  AUTHOR 


862788 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH i 

THE  VIOLIN 36 

MY  CHATEAUX  IN  SPAIN 50 

THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  REGICIDES 55 

CERVANTES 57 

SUNSET  AT  SEA 60 

To  THE  SEA  AT  DAWN 62 

SUNSET  AT  SEA 64 

FORGET-ME-NOTS 66 

MINERVA  MEDICA.  VERSES  READ  AT  THE  DINNER  COM 
MEMORATIVE  OF  THE  FIFTIETH  YEAR  OF  THE  DOCTOR 
ATE  OF  D.  HAYES  AGNEW,  M.  D 69 

NOTES     .                                      75 


THE   CUP   OF   YOUTH. 


SCENE,  A   SEA   BEACH    NEAR   RAVENNA.     MOON 
LIGHT. 

DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

CASPAR.  GELOSA,  his  wife. 

UBERTO.  EMILIA,  his  wife. 

GALILEO. 

TIME,  circa  1632. 

SCENE  I.    Gaspar  and  Gelosa.    Gelosa playing  with  the 
sand. 

CASPAR. 

Time  stays  a  prisoner  in  those  pretty  hands 
And  all  the  world  stands  still  for  you  and  me, 
Yet  must  I  break  the  spell  and  hustle  in 
The  rough  world's  business.     Wherefore,  little  one, 
This  long  delay  ?    You  lacked  not  courage  once. 

GELOSA. 

Still  am  I  in  the  bondage  of  my  youth  ; 
What  wonder  if  the  woman  find  it  hard 


THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

To  cast  aside  the  lessons  of  the  child  ? 
All  my  life  long  I  feared  that  silent  man 
Who  came  across  the  garden  from  the  tower, 
Ate,  slept,  or  to  and  fro  athwart  the  grass 
Trod  one  same  path  with  bended  head  and  back, 
And  kept  no  company  with  this  lower  world. 
To  her  who  loved  him  as  the  worst  are  loved 
But  by  the  best  of  those  who  love  the  best, 
Whose  love  he  wasted  and  whose  gold  he  spent, 
Few  words  he  cast,  and  bitter  :  but  for  her 
I  had  not  cared  to  see  his  face  again. 

CASPAR. 

Men  say  his  silence  guards  such  fateful  power 
As  makes  yon  stars  the  vassals  of  his  will, 
Turns  baser  metals  into  golden  coin, 
And  wrings  all  secrets  from  the  miser  Time. 

GELOSA. 

And  yet  he  knew  not  that  one  summer  night 
A  little  maid  —  Gelosa  was  her  name  — 
Had  stolen  out  beneath  his  starry  slaves 
To  learn  the  subtle  alchemy  of  love 
That  turns  all  fates  to  gold,  nor  lacks  the  power 
To  prophesy  the  sweetness  of  to-morrow. 
Methinks  he  knew  but  little,  knowing  not 
What  love  will  dare ;  or  haply  knew  too  much 
For  all  the  gentler  uses  of  the  world 
When,  like  a  landlord  with  too  full  an  inn, 


THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

He  thrust  out  Love  that  ever  might  have  been 
The  fairest  guest  his  learning  entertained. 

CASPAR. 

Nor  I  more  welcome.     I  could  laugh  to  think 
How  patiently  I  took  the  beggar's  '  Nay ' 
He  cast  in  scorn.     "  What !  wed  a  landless  squire, 
Who  spends  in  folly  what  he  won  in  blood  !  — 
None  but  a  scholar  wins  my  niece's  lands." 


My  lands  indeed,  and  if  all  tales  be  true, 
He  married  them  these  many  years  ago. 


Ay,  and  may  keep  them  if  he  be  but  wise. 
Fair  over  Arno  tower  my  castle  walls, 
With  vine-clad  hillsides  rolling  to  the  plain. 
Nothing  I  owe  you  save  your  own  sweet  self. 
A  scholar,  I !     Not  troubled  will  you  be 
By  reason  of  my  studies.     I  shall  learn 
Love  from  your  eyes ;  your  lips  shall  be  my  law, 
And  if  their  ripe  decisions  please  me  not, 
The  fount  of  justice  at  its  very  source 
I  shall  know  how  to  bribe.     I  brought  you  here 
Because  you  willed  it,  — ay,  and  save  for  that 
I  care  but  little  how  this  errand  thrives. 


4  THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

GELOSA. 

Kiss  me  the  thoughts  away  that  trouble  me  ; 
The  lapsing  days  will  bring  some  pleasant  chance. 

CASPAR. 

Who  trusts  a  multitude  of  counselors 
Wins  sad  unrest. 

GELOSA. 

Oh,  let  my  mission  wait. 

How  very  silent  is  the  sea  to-night ! 
~1  The  little  waves  climb  up  the  shore  and  lay 
/  Cool  cheeks  upon  the  ever-moving  sands 

That  follow  swift  their  whispering  retreat. 

I  would  I  knew  what  things  their  busy  tongues 

Confess  to  earth. 

CASPAR. 

Let  me  confess  you  rather  ! 
Tell  me  again  you  love  me. 


Small  my  need. 

T  is  in  my  eyes ;  't  is  on  my  lips ;  my  heart 
Beats  to  this  music  all  the  long  day  through. 
I  am  like  a  bird  that  hath  one  only  note 
For  song,  for  prayer,  for  thanks,  for  everything. 


THE   CUP  OF   YOUTH.  5 

CASPAR. 

You  cannot  know  how  passing  sweet  it  is 
To  change  the  camp,  the  field,  the  storms  of  war, 
For  this  and  you  ;  to  watch  the  gray  moon  wane 
And  see  the  slumbrous  sea  leap  here  and  there 
To  silver  dreams. 

GELOSA. 

The  hand  of  time  seems  stayed, 
And  joy  to  own  the  ever  constant  hours 
So  full  of  still  assurance  is  the  night. 
,  Love  hath  the  quiet  certainty  of  heaven, 
Rich  with  the  promise  of  unchanging  years. 

[  Voices  are  heard  near  by. 

CASPAR. 

Hush,  my  Gelosa  !     Who  be  these  that  come  ? 

Enter  Galileo  and  Uberto,  who  sit  down  among  the  dunes  close  by. 
GELOSA  (aside). 

My  uncle  and  his  friend,  the  Florentine. 

CASPAR. 

Hark  you,  he  speaks  your  name.    He  said,  "  Gelosa." 
He  called  you  —  was  it  Gelosetta,  love  ? 
Why,  I  shall  call  you  Gelosetta  too. 

GELOSA. 

Distance  and  absence  kept  him  this  one  friend, 
A  scholar,  grave  and  gentle  as  the  gentlest. 


THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

CASPAR. 

And  that  is  Galileo  !     I  recall 

One  day  in  Florence  walking  with  the  Duke, 

A  man  most  curious  of  his  fellow-men, 

We  saw  this  student  wandering  to  and  fro 

Intent  of  gaze  where  Giotto's  campanile 

Athwart  the  plaza  sends  its  shaft  of  shade. 

The  Duke  had  speech  with  him.     A  serious  face, 

With  eyes  that  seemed  to  search  beyond  the  earth, 

Large,  open,  peaceful  as  Luini's  saints. 

GELOSA. 
More  sweet  than  mine  ? 

CASPAR. 

I  '11  tell  you  when  't  is  day. 
A  mighty^student  of  bright  eyes  am  I ; 
Now  there  I  '11  match  my  science  with  the  best. 
Those  Florentines,  who  never  want  for  wit 
To  label  love  or  hate,  say  he  's  moon-mad, 
And  hath  for  mistresses  the  starry  host 
That  wink  at  him  by  night. 

GELOSA. 

Not  Solomon 

Had  half  so  many.     Yet  for  earthlier  loves 
He  lacks  not  time  nor  honest  appetite ; 
He  never  starved  his  heart  to  feed  his  head. 
Hush  !  now  he  speaks  again.     The  time  may  serve 
To  learn  my  uncle's  mood. 


THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH.  7 

GALILEO. 

Your  Gelosetta  — 

UBERTO. 

Not  ever  greatly  mine.     The  wayward  child 
Grew  to  the  willful  woman,  ignorant, 
Untrained,  and  wild,  a  dreamer  by  the  sea,  — 
Nor  hers  the  housewife's  knowledge.     I  have  lived 
Companionless  of  nobler  intercourse,  — 
As  to  a  friend  I  speak,  —  my  wife  wrapped  up 
In  household  cares  and  tendance  of  the  poor, 
Death  busy  with  my  manhood's  friends.     I  tread 
An  ever  lonelier  road. 

GALILEO. 

*    So  seem  all  ways 

To  him  who,  yearning  for  too  distant  good, 
Sees  not  the  sweetness  of  the  common  path. 
Life  hath  two  hands  for  those  who  fitly  live : 
With  one  it  gives,  with  one  it  takes  away  ; 
The  willing  palm  still  finds  the  touch  of  love, 
And  he  alone  has  lost  the  art  to  live 
Who  cannot  win  new  friends.     Unwise  is  he 
Who  scorns  the  large  relationship  of  life. 
Yon  restless  sea,  the  sky,  the  bird,  the  flower, 
The  laugh  of  folly,  and  the  ways  of  men, 
The  woman's  smile,  the  hours  of  idleness, 
The  court,  the  street,  the  busy  market-place,  — 
All  that  the  skies  can  teach,  the  earth  reveal,  — 


8  THE  CUP  OF  YOl/TH 

Are  wisdom's  bread.     Alas  !  the  common  world 

Hath  lessons  no  philosophy  can  spare  ; 

The  tree  that  ever  spreads  its  leaves  to  heaven 

Casts  equal  anchors  'neath  the  soil  below. 

The  food  of  life  is  large,  —  nay,  infinite. 

With  man  it  is  as  with  the  world  he  treads  : 

No  little  stone  of  yonder  pebbled  beach 

Could  cease  to  be,  and  this  great  rolling  orb 

Feel  not  its  loss>x  Enough  of  this  to-night. 

Count  me  your  gains  a  little.     Years  have  gone 

Since  last  we  met :  what  good  thing  have  they  brought  ? 

UBERTO. 

To-morrow  I  will  tell  you.     Now  to-night 
My  mind  is  ill  at  ease  ;  come,  let  us  go, 
But,  as  my  love  is  valued  by  your  own, 
Speak  not  again  of  that  unthankful  child. 

GALILEO. 

And  yet  I  loved  her.     Have  it  as  you  will. 

[Exit  Galileo  and  Uberto. 
GELOSA. 

O  Caspar,  said  I  not  that  age  was  cruel  ? 
Be  but  your  youth  as  kind. 

CASPAR. 

And  I  could  thank 
The  misery  that  doubly  sweetens  love. 


THE   CUP  OF   YOUTH.  9 

Strange  seemed  my  life  to  him.     To  me,  as  strange 

This  corner-pickled  shrivel  of  a  man, 

That  all  things  dreaming  never  waked  enough 

To  win  the  sanity  of  open  eyes. 

One  day  in  Rimini,  before  a  mirror, 

I  stood  so  near  my  breath  the  image  blurred. 

Duke  Francis,  o'er  my  shoulder  gazing,  laughed, 

Said  I  was  like  some  men  he  knew,  and  went 

And  would  not  read  the  riddle.     Now  't  is  clear. 

The  man  that  hath  no  mirror  save  himself 

Blurs  the  clear  image  conscience  shows  us  all. 

Now  for  a  schoolless,  helmet-dinted  head, 

The  guess  is  not  so  bad.  —  What,  tears  again  ? 

Tears  for  this  man  who  in  your  childhood  scorned 

Its  glad  prerogatives  of  love  and  trust  ? 

A  thoughtless  falcon,  bold  and  wild  of  wing, 

Like  to  my  lover-self,  had  better  kept 

God's  pledge  to  childhood. 

GELOSA. 

Nay,  no  tears  have  I 

For  him  who  cost  me  many.     But  for  her, 
The  simple,  kindly  dame  who  had  no  will 
That  was  not  his,  —  I  am  more  sad  for  her, 
Because  she  never  learned  the  woman's  art 
To  traffic  with  her  sadness.     Yet  had  she 
A  childless  youth  ;  the  children  of  old  age, 
Love,  solace,  cheerful  days  of  quietness 
Dead  as  the  little  ones  she  never  knew. 


IO  THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

>> 

Though  sad  at  best  the  husbandry  of  years, 

Time  in  the  happy  face  no  furrow  cuts 
That  is  not  wholesome  ;  but  a  loveless  life, 
^Sorrow  unshared,  neglect  and  lonely  hours 
Make  records  sore  with  shame  as  are  the  scars 
A  master's  whip  leaves  to  the  beaten  slave.  ^ 
Has  life  no  answering  scourge  for  them  that'sin  ? 

CASPAR. 

For  less  than  this,  ay,  for  a  moment's  wrong 
I  have  seen  men  die  young. 

GELOSA. 

Let  us  go  too. 

The  night  has  lost  its  grace.     These  memories 
Serve  but  to  stir  dead  hates.     To  bed,  —  to  bed. 
Like  his,  my  mind  is  very  ill  at  ease  ; 
I  would  his  hurt  were  equal  to  my  own. 


SCENE  II.     Garden  of  a  villa  near  the  sea  and  border 
ing  on  a  road.     Enter  Ubcrto,  and  walks  to  and  fro. 


UBERTO. 

For  gain,  for  lands,  for  every  bribe  of  power 
The  soldier  wastes  the  substance  of  the  poor, 
Sets  ravage  free  and  spills  the  blood  of  babes, 


THE   CUP  OF   YOUTH.  II 

Yet  sleeps  as  soundly.     Shall  I  hesitate, 
Checked  by  the  memory  of  an  outworn  love, 
A  thoughtless  woman  and  a  foolish  girl  ? 
My  friend  —  but  he  has  won  the  laurel  crown. 
Dim  continents  of  thought  before  me  lie, 
Their  harvests  wait  the  vigour  of  the  scythe, 
While  in  my  heart  the  tardy  blood  of  age 
Unequal  throbs.     The  mind,  as  tremulous 
As  these  thin  hands,  has  lost  its  certain  grasp; 
Pass,  ye  weak  phantasies  that  bar  my  way,  — 
Children  of  habit,  —  I  will  do  this  thing  ! 

Enter  Emilia. 

EMILIA  (aside). 

Now  help  me,  Mary  Mother,  in  my  need. 
Perhaps  some  memory  of  our  joyous  youth  — 

UBERTO. 

What,  not  abed  ? 

EMILIA. 

I  cannot  sleep  of  late. 
As  if  life  were  not  long  enough,  the  day 
Lives  through  the  night,  and  mocks  with  time's  ex 
cess. 

UBERTO. 

Why  vex  my  soul  with  that  of  which  each  hour 
Tells  the  sad  tale  ? 


12  THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

EMILIA. 

Let  us  forget,  Uberto  ! 
Just  half  a  century  gone,  when  you  and  I, 
Just  fifty  years  ago  this  very  night, 
Walked  'neath  the  flowering  locust,  how  I  blessed 
The  kindly  shade  that  hid  my  blushing  cheeks  ! 
Not  redder  was  the  moon  that  night  of  May. 

UBERTO. 

Still  shall  it  mock  the  cheek  of  other  loves 
When  you  and  I  are  gone.     Oh,  cruel  time  ! 
You  lost  the  plaything  of  a  pretty  face  ;  — 
What  was  your  loss  to  mine  ?     What  comfort  lies 
In  useless  babble  o'er  a  golden  past  ? 
Lo,  when  the  eager  spirit,  worn  with  toil, 
Has  gathered  knowledge,  won  its  lordliest  growth, 
This  robber  comes  to  plunder  memory 
And  lash  with  needless  anguish  to  the  grave. 
We  scorn  the  miser  who  in  death  laments 
The  gold  he  cannot  carry  ;  let  us  jest 
At  him  whose  usury  of  knowledge  stops. 

EMILIA. 

How  know  you  that  it  doth  ?    To  me  it  seems 
As  if  no  office  of  our  mortal  frame 
Has  more  the  signet  of  immortal  use 
Than  just  this  common  gift  of  memory. 
Forgive  the  thoughts  that  come  I  know  not  whence,  — 
I  think  our  Galileo  said  it  once,  — 


THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH.  13 

The  ghosts  that  haunt  the  peaceful  hours  of  night 

Are  not  more  unaccountable  of  man 

Than  the  dead  thoughts  of  life  that,  at  a  touch, 

A  taste,  an  odour,  rise,  we  know  not  whence, 

To  scare  us  with  the  unforgotten  past. 

Your  knowledge  is  not  like  the  miser's  gold, 

For  this  world's  usage  only.     Yet,  perchance, 

'T  is  like  in  this,  that  what  it  was  on  earth, 

Self-ful,  or  helpful  of  another's  pain, 

May  set  what  interest  on  that  gathered  hoard 

The  soul  falls  heir  to  in  a  world  to  come. 

UBERTO. 

^ 

Alas,  were  I  but  sure  that  after  death 

I  still  should  carry  all  life's  nobler  seed 
To  ripen  largely  under  other  skies 
I  should  not  mourn  at  death.  ^\ 

EMILIA. 

Why  is  it,  friend, 

That  I,  for  whom  this  life  so  little  holds, 
Should  in  its  cup  of  emptied  sweetness  find 
The  pearl  content,  and  with  clear  vision  see 
The  stir  of  angel  wings  'neath  death's  black  cloak  ? 
And  life,  ah,  life  might  still  be  sweet  to  me ! 
>  O  husband,  had  you  been  as  some  have  been, 
We  should  have  lived  a  length  of  tranquil  days, 
With  love  slow  moving  through  its  autumn-time 
To  merge  in  loving  friendship,  and  at  last 


14  THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

To  find  the  sainted  calm  of  patient  age, 
Peaceful  and  passionless,  and  so  have  walked 
Like  little  children  through  life's  wintry  ways 
To  meet  what  fate  the  kindly  years  decreed.  \^ 

UBERTO. 

Alas,  the  best  is  ever  to  be  won  ! 
There  is  no  rose  but  might  have  been  more  red, 
There  is  no  fruit  might  not  have  been  more  sweet, 
There  is  no  sight  so  clear  but  sadly  serves 
To  set  the  far  horizon  farther  still. 

[  Voices  are  heard  on  the  road  back  of  them. 

EMILIA  (aside). 

Heart  of  my  hearts  !     It  is  the  little  one  ! 
My  Gelosetta  !     Will  he  know  the  voice  ? 

GELOSA  (on  the  road  as  she  goes  by  with  Caspar}. 

Can  the  rose-bud  ever  know 
Half  how  red  the  rose  will  grow  ? 
Can  the  May-day  ever  guess 
Half  the  summer's  loveliness  ? 

UBERTO. 
What  voice  is  that  ? 

EMILIA. 

Some  lated  village-girl. 


THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH.  15 

UBERTO. 

No,  't  was  Gelosa's. 

EMILIA. 

Would  indeed  it  were  ! 
Ah,  that  were  joy !     Alas,  't  is  but  the  girl 
I  helped  last  winter,  one  the  plague  cast  out 
With  other  Florentines. 

{Aside.}  Would  I  could  see  her ! 

UBERTO. 

Come  back  again  to  drain  our  meagre  purse. 

Ay,  there  's  the  man,  —  a  woman  and  a  man. 
,  A  man's  voice  sings. 

'T  is  better  to  guess  than  to  see, 
'T  is  better  to  dream  than  to  be. 
The  best  of  life's  loving 
Is  lost  in  the  proving, 
'T  is  better  to  dream  than  to  be. 
The  joy  of  love's  sweetness 
Is  lost  with  completeness, 
'T  is  better  to  dream  than  to  be.  VN 

EMILIA. 

A  pair  of  lovers  !     She  has  found  her  mate. 

UBERTO. 

Already  doth  your  cynic  lover  sing 
The  death  and  funeral  of  love  and  trust. 


1 6  THE  CUP  OF   YOUTH. 

Thrice  happy  these  with  wingless  instincts  born. 
Perhaps  is  best  the  woman's  ordered  life, 
Market  and  house,  the  husband  and  the  child. 

EMILIA. 
Mother  of  God  !  and  I  that  have  no  child  ! 

UBERTO. 

St.  Margaret  1  but  you  women  folk  are  tender. 
Enter  behind  a  hedge  Caspar  and  Gelosa,  while  Uberto  continues. 
Forget  my  haste,  Emilia  ;  all  my  mind 
Dwells  on  the  nearness  of  one  fateful  hour. 

EMILIA. 

Ever  the  dream  that  through  the  weary  years 
Has  turned  your  life  from  God,  and  home,  and 

me, — 

To  win  for  you  that  doubtful  cup  of  youth. 
Think  yet,  Uberto,  on  the  thing  you  do  ; 
It  cannot  be  that  I,  grown  drear  and  old, 
The  very  deathtide  oozing  round  my  feet, 
Shall  see  you  glad  and  young.     It  cannot  be 
Earth  holds  for  me  that  agonizing  hour. 

[  Uberto  rests  silent. 

CASPAR. 

No  answer  hath  he.  Now  speak  you  to  him. 
It  seems  the  wise  man  hath  no  wiser  dreams 
Than  fools  are  heir  to. 


THE  CUP   OF  YOUTH.  17 

GELOSA. 

Heard  you  all  he  said  ? 

CASPAR. 

Ay,  all  I  cared  to  hear.     Come,  let  us  go. 
Seek  you  his  wife  alone.     Forget  this  fool. 

GELOSA. 

Didst  hear,  my  Caspar  ?     Can  it  be  he  owns 
A  cup  which  drained  shall  fetch  his  youth  again  ? 
Men  say  the  thing  has  been  in  other  days. 
To  leave  her  old  and  withered  were  to  add 
A  crime,  unthought  of  yet,  to  sin's  dark  list. 

CASPAR. 
Less  base  it  were  to  stab  her  where  she  stands. 

[Exit  Emilia  silently. 

GELOSA. 

Hush !  she  has  left  him,  —  left  him.     Were  I  she, 
I  would  crawl  out  at  midnight  to  his  tower. 
Deep  would  I  drain  the  damned  cup  of  life, 
And  wander  back  a  maiden  fair  and  young, 
To  curse  his  age  with  jealous  misery. 
Or  I  would  kill  him  as  he  lay  asleep, 
And  keep  him  old  forever. 


1 8  THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

CASPAR. 

Now  here 's  a  wicked  lady.     Should  I  chance 
To  fall  in  love  with  larger  length  of  days, 
I  should  be  very  careful  of  my  diet. 
Comes  now  the  Florentine.     The  play  were  good, 
Were  you  not  in  the  plot.     They  say  in  Florence 
The  Pope  will  have  it  that  this  man  of  stars 
Shall  spread  no  gossip  as  to  worlds  that  roll, 
Nor  play  at  Joshua  with  the  Emperor  Sun. 
To  be  so  wise  that  all  the  world  's  a  fool 
Might  breed  uneasy  life. 

GELOSA. 

Perhaps  j  and  yet,  — 

You  know  we  little  women  will  have  thoughts,  — 
I  was  but  thinking  that  to  surely  own 
A  soul  for  actions  great  beyond  compare, 
A  mind  for  thoughts  that  have  the  native  flight 
Of  eaglets  rising  from  the  parent  nest, 
To  soar  so  high  they  cast  no  earthward  shade, 
Why,  that  might  bring  a  childhood  of  content, 
Should  smile  as  sweetly  at  the  babbling  crowd 
As  though   it  cheered   him  with   the   tongues   of 
heaven. 

CASPAR. 

There  's  ever  music  in  your  Umbrian  heart 
That  lived  where  Dante  died.   Yet  vain  the  thought ; 
For  me  the  world  may  skip,  or  stop,  or  turn 
Back  somersaults  as  likes  the  blessed  Pope. 


THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH,  19 

Where  gat  you,  love,  these  riddles  of  the  brain, 
These  comments  on  a  world  you  never  knew  ? 

GELOSA. 

A  certain  soldier  taught  me.     Ah,  you  smile  ! 
To  greatly  love  is  to  be  greatly  wise. 
God  were  less  wise  were  He  not  also  love. 
Ah,  there  's  a  riddle  only  love  can  read  ! 

Enter  Galileo  to  Uberto,  still  seated. 

GALILEO. 

Far  have  I  sought  you  through  the  ilex  grove, 
Among  Emilia's  roses,  in  your  tower. 

UBERTO. 

My  tower  —  you  saw  — 

GALILEO. 

Saw  nothing.     [Aside.}  He  distrusts  me. 

UBERTO. 

Forgive  me.     You  shall  see,  shall  hear,  to-night. 

GALILEO. 

Those  many  years  since  I,  a  jocund  lad, 
To  you,  my  elder,  turned  for  counsel,  help, 
Came  back  to  me  to-day.     You  were  more  kind 
Than  brothers  are.     Ah,  happy,  studious  hours  ! 


2O  THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

What  was  the  Pope  to  me,  or  I  to  him  ? 
A  Cardinal  was  as  the  farthest  star, 
Outside  the  orbit  of  my  hopes  and  fears. 
I  came  to  you  to  share  some  idle  days, 
To  get  again  within  your  life  of  thought, 
To  question  and  be  questioned. 

UBERTO. 

Wherefore  not  ? 

GALILEO. 

A  messenger  who  followed  me  with  haste 
Bids  me  to  Rome  to  answer  as  I  may. 
My  sin  you  know.1 

UBERTO. 
What  answer  can  you  make  ? 

GALILEO. 

Alas,  it  moves  !     This  ever-patient  globe 
Moves,  with  the  Pope  and  me,  would  move  without. 
Could  I  but  summon  God  to  answer  them  ! 
If  He  has  whispered  in  my  listening  ear 
This  secret,  guarded  since  the  morn  of  time, 
*  How  shall  I  say  I  know  not  it  nor  Him  ? 
A  man  may  love  or  not,  rejoice  or  not, 
Do  or  do  not,  but  what  he  thinks  is  sped ; 
These  word-winged  arrows  have  eternal  flight  N>. 


THE  CUP  OF   YOUTH  21 

UBERTO. 

But  you,  the  archer,  you  who  loosed  the  string, 
What  harm  if  you  should  say  this  was  not  yours  ?  — 
This  troubling  doctrine  long  ago  was  born ; 
Sages  in  Egypt  knew  it.     Or,  at  need, 
Say  that  the  world  is  stiller  than  a  snail. 
Say  what  you  will,  but  live  to  draw  anew 
That  bow  of  thought  which  you  alone  can  draw. 

GALILEO. 

Death  is  more  wise  than  any  wisest  thought 
The  living  man  can  think  ;  death  is  more  great 
Than  any  life  ;  and  as  for  that  stern  hour 
I  meet  in  Rome  next  week,  I  know  not  now 
How  I  shall  judge  my  judge. 

UBERTO. 

The  fate  I  fear, 

I  fear  for  you,  but  would  not  for  myself. 
Ay,  at  this  hour  would  I  change  lives  with  you  ; 
For  come  what  may,  chains,  prison,  rack,  or  axe, 
You  will  have  lived  so  largely  that  no  fate 
Can  pain  your  age  with  sense  of  unfulfilment. 
But  I  have  all  things  willed,  yet  nothing  done.  <" 

GALILEO. 

I  cannot  think  your  solitary  years 
Have  won  us  nothing,  as  you  seem  to  say. 
And  now  my  hours  are  few.     I  go  to-morrow 


22  THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

Perhaps  no  more  to  hear  a  friendly  voice, 
Or  guess  the  starry  secrets  of  the  night. 

UBERTO. 

Be  patient  with  me.     Many  a  year  ago, 
At  twilight  walking  by  the  darkened  sea, 
The  sudden  glory  of  a  broadening  thought 
Smote  me  with  light  as  if  through  doors  cast  wide 
To  one  in  darkness  prisoned.     Then  I  saw 
Dimly,  as  if  at  dusk,  vast  open  space 
Of  things  long  guessed,  but  waiting  fuller  light. 
What  could  I  but  despair  ?     The  hand  and  brain 
No  longer  did  my  errands.     There  was  set 
A  task  for  youth  and  vigour.     Steadily 
I  gave  my  age  to  win  the  gift  of  youth, 
That  youth  might  help  my  quest. 

That  charm  I  sought 
Which  vexed  the  soul  of  old  philosophy. 
I  won  it,  friend !     To-night  I  drain  this  cup. 
Like  autumn  leaves  the  withered  years  shall  fall, 
And  sudden  spring  be  mine.     With  wisdom  clad, 
With  knowledge,  not  of  youth,  assured  of  time, 
I  shall  speed  swiftly  to  my  certain  goal. 
The  midnight  calls  my  steps  to  yonder  tower, 
Where  youth,  the  bride,  awaits  my  joy's  delay. 
You  have  my  secret. 


THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH.  23 

GALILEO. 

In  this  weary  search 
Great  minds  have  perished.     Where  you  think  to 

win, — 

In  this  the  masters  failed.     Their  wrecks  of  thought 
Are  in  great  volumes  scattered.     Yet  it  may  be. 
The  strange  is  only  what  has  never  been, 
/ .'And  every  century  gives  the  last  the  lie. 
But  if  't  is  so,  there 's  that  within  your  cup 
Might  stay  the  wiser  hand.     Ay,  if  't  is  so  ! 


If  ?  if  't  is  so  ?     It  is  !     Not  vain  the  work 
That  filled  these  longing  years.     For  no  base  end 
These  wasting  vigils  and  these  anxious  days. 
The  gains  I  win  shall  lessen  human  pain. 
One  re-created  life  to  man  shall  bring 
Uncounted  centuries  in  the  gathering  sum. 

GALILEO. 

I  neither  doubt  the  harvest  nor  the  power 
To  reap  its  glorious  fruit.     And  yet  —  and  yet  — 
If  the  strong  river  of  your  flowing  life 
You  shall  turn  back  to  be  again  the  brook, 
Is 't  natural  to  think  't  will  float  great  ships, 
Or  with  its  lessened  vigour  roll  the  mill  ? 
I  too  am  of  that  sacred  guild  whose  creed, 
Before  Christ  died  or  Luke  the  healer  lived, 
Taught  temperance,  honour,  chastity,  and  love. 


24  THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

Enough'of  me.     I  go  to  meet  my  fate. 
Would  I  could  stay  ! 

UBKRTO. 

Ah  1  when  in  Pisa's  dome 

You  watched  the  lamp  swing  constant  in  its  arc, 
You  gave  to  man  another  punctual  slave, 
And  bade  it  time  for  us  the  throbbing  pulse  ; a 
Joyful  I  guessed  the  gain  for  art  and  life. 
Not  that  frail  English  boy  Fabricius  taught, 
Not  sad  Servetus,  nor  that  daring  soul, 
Our  brave  Vesalius,  e'er  had  matched  your  power 
To  read  the  riddles  of  this  mortal  frame. 
And  thenjyou  left  us.     Would  our  strange  machine 
Had  kept  your  toil,  and  cheated  yon  fair  stars  ! 

GALILEO. 

We  do  but  what  we  must.     Some  instinct  guides. 
To-night,  when  all  the  morrow  world  seems  dim 
And  life  itself  a  thing  of  numbered  hours, 
With  clearing  vision  still  for  you  I  doubt. 
Life  hath  its  despot  laws.     You  more  than  I 
Know  all  their  tyrant  rigour.     Tempt  it  not, 
Lest  failure,  anguish,  lurk  within  the  cup. 
Think  sanely  of  this  venture ;  let  it  pass. 
Fill  full,  God  helping,  all  the  years  He  leaves. 
Set  'gainst  the  darkness  of  death's  nearing  hour 
In  wholesome  li^ht  all  human  action  shines. 
This  dream  is  childlike  ;  you  will  wake  to  tears. 


THE   CUP  OF   YOUTH.  2$ 

Ask  of  your  life  if  you  have  life  deserved. 

What  did  you  with  the  gift  ?     You  had  of  it 

All  that  another  hath,  or  long  or  short. 
,'Not  time,  but  action,  is  the  clock  of  man. 

I  should  go  happier  hence  if  I  could  set 

Your  fatal  cup  aside.^Nay,  sorrow  not ; 

Thank  God  for  me.     I  have  not  vainly  lived. 

The  joy  to  know  they  cannot  rob  me  of. 

Truth  have  I  served,  and  God,  in  serving  her : 

That  heritage  is  deathless  as  Himself. 

Something  the  thinker  of  the  poet  hath ; 

Our  Dante  was  no  mean  philosopher. 

With  prophet  eyes  I  see  a  freer  day, 

When  thought  shall  mock  at  Kaiser  and  at  Pope. 

How  can  they  think  to  chain  this  viewless  thing, 

Which  is  a  very  life  within  the  life, 

And  in  the  irresponsible  hours  of  sleep 

Brings  thought  unto  fruition  ?     Yea,  ethereal ! 

Of  all  God's  mysteries  most  near  to  Him ; 

Instinctively  creative,  like  the  woman 
.•  Pledged  by  conception's  joy  to  labour's  toil. 

Grieve  not  for  me.     All  that  is  best  shall  live. 

There  is  no  rack  for  thought ;  no  axe,  no  block, 

Can  silence  that.  x\ 

UBERTO. 

But  what,  dear  friend,  if  I 
Should  bid  you  laugh  at  Pope  or  Cardinal  ? 
Take  you  this  cup  of  mine.     Take  it  and  live. 
In  youth's  disguise  lie  safety,  freedom,  life. 


26  THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

GALILEO  (aside). 

Not  stranger  in  its  orbit  moves  my  world 
Than  man,  its  habitant.     Why,  here  is  one 
Could  squander  years  and  cheat  a  woman's  love, 
Yet  turn  to  offer  this.     Not  I,  indeed  ! 
[Aloud.]  Life  has  been  very  dear  to  me,  Uberto, 
7  For  that  it  has  and  that  it  has  not  been. 
How  many  in  their  tender  multitude 
The  cobweb  ties  of  friendship,  labour,  love, 
I  knew  not  till  this  cruel  storm  of  fate 
Did  thread  them  thick  with  jewels  numberless. 
And  yet  life  owns  no  bribe  would  bid  me  back 
To  live  it  o'er  anew.     I  can  but  thank  you. 

UBERTO. 

Is  it  only  they  who  have  no  life  of  worth 
Crave  leave  to  live  again  ? 

GALILEO. 

That  is  not  all. 

Vainly  and  long  would  we  have  talked  of  it 
In  other  days.     No  life  is  what  it  seems. 
If  thought  were  man's  whole  company  in  life, 
Who  would  not  live  it  o'er  ?     But  by  our  side 
Friends,  comrades,  walk  and  torture  us  with  loss. 
Who  is  there  born  would  will  to  live  again 
Such  anguish  as  the  happiest  hare  known  ? 
This  is  the  heart's  half  only  ;  more  there  is. 
But  the  night  wastes.  [Kites. 


THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH.  2/ 

UBERTO. 

To-morrow  you  go  hence  ? 
Write  me  from  Rome.     Before  the  day  is  spent 
I  shall  have  won  or  lost.     Good-night,  good  friend. 

[Exit  both. 


These  learned  folks  are  not  more  gay  to  hear 
Than  Lenten  priests.  I  gave  their  riddles  up 
This  half  hour  since.  And  you  ? 

GELOSA. 

I  heard  it  all. 
Love,  friendship,  reason,  all  alike  are  vain. 


Had  I  a  minute  in  his  secret  den, 

That  draught  of  his  should  give  eternal  life 

To  the  foul  weeds  that  rot  around  the  moat. 

[Gelosa  whispers. 
The  jest  were  good.     Is  there  no  peril  in  it  ? 


GELOSA. 

None,  Caspar.     Wait  for  me  beside  the  gate. 
Quick,  ere  the  chance  be  lost !     'T  is  past  eleven. 
Oh,  he  will  like  my  jest.     Come,  this  way,  come  ! 


28  THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH. 


SCENE  III.  Stairway  of  the  tower,  where  Emilia  sits 
weeping  at  the  door  of  the  astrologer's  laboratory ; 
a  small  lamp  beside  her. 

EMILIA. 

Though  he  should  kill  me  I  will  wait  for  him. 
To  die  were  easy,  if  to  die  would  stay 
His  hand  from  wrong.     Alas !  too  sure  it  is, 
Living  or  dead,  I  nothing  am  to  him. 
Who  is  it  comes  ?     Say,  is  it  you,  Uberto  ? 

Gelosa  comes  up  the  stairs. 
GKLOSA. 

Oh,  mother,  it  is  I,  your  little  one ! 
Friends,  husband,  wealth,  all  that  life  hath  to  give, 
Are  mine  to-day.     Come  to  my  Tuscan  home. 
The  flowers  you  love  watch  for  you  on  the  hills. 
My  children  shall  be  yours.     My  good  lord  waits 
Our  coming  at  the  gate.     Leave  this  old  man. 

EMILIA. 
I  cannot,  child. 

GKLOSA. 

Then  must  I  talk  with  him. 
For  this  we  came  from  Florence.     Once  again, 
I  must  be  sure  his  will  is  as  of  old. 


THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH.  29 

EMILIA. 

Vain  is  your  errand,  child. 

GELOSA. 

Yet  shall  I  try  ; 

[Aside.~\  The  equal  years  give  me  at  last  my  turn. 
\Aloud.~\  Is  the  door  barred  ? 

EMILIA. 
Nay,  but  I  dare  not  enter. 

GELOSA. 

Not  long  the  thing  you  fear  shall  vex  your  soul. 
Come  with  me.  Spill  the  cursed  cup,  or  wreck 
With  wholesome  fire  this  chamber  of  your  fear. 

EMILIA. 
Who  has  betrayed  his  secrets  ? 

GELOSA. 

He  himself. 

Hid  by  the  ilex  hedge  I  heard  it  all. 
Wept  with  you,  for  you ;  heard  your  tender  plea. 
Of  other  make  am  I.     Give  me  your  ring. 
You  used  to  say  I  had  your  sister's  voice, 
Twin  to  your  own. 

EMILIA. 

What  would  you  say  to  him  ? 
What  do  to  him  ?     You  cannot  mean  him  ill. 


30  THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

GELOSA. 

Not  I,  indeed.     Hark !  there 's  a  voice  without. 
Trust  me  a  little.     Quick  !  the  ring,  the  ring  ! 
No  other  hope  is  left.     Give  me  the  ring  ! 

EMILIA. 

You  will  not  harm  him  ?     I  shall  have  it  back  ? 
He  gave  it  me  the  day  we  were  betrothed. 

GELOSA. 

7  A  goodly  half  of  this  world's  misery 
'  Is  born  of  woman's  patience.     Could  you  live 
From  that  to  this  ? 

EMILIA. 

What  can  a  woman  else  ? 

GELOSA. 
What  else  ?  Naught  now.  The  ring,  and  have  no  fear ! 

[  Takes  her  hand  and  removes  the  emerald  ring,  which  is 

yielded  reluctantly. 

Alas,  poor  withered  hand  !  how  dear  thou  art, 
And  sweet  with  use  of  bounty ! 

Quick,  the  lamp : 
And  wait  for  me  upon  the  upper  stair. 

\Urges  her  hastily 

EMILIA. 

Nay,  tell  me  more.     I  am  afraid,  Gelosa. 


THE  CUP  OF  YOUTH.  3! 

GELOSA. 

Of  me  who  love  you  ?     There,  a  kiss  ;  good-by. 
And  stir  not,  if  you  love  or  him  or  me. 

\Gelosa  opens  the  door,  and  with  the  lamp  in  her  hand 

enters  the  room.     Emilia  ascends  the  upper  staircase. 
\ 

There  may  be  too  much  sweetness  in  a  woman. 
A  little  sour  upon  the  shadowed  side 
My  Tuscan  peaches  have. N 

Sweet  Mary,  what  a  den  ! 
A  winter  wealth  of  kindling  in  old  books. 
Bones,  —  that 's  not  pleasant.     Vipers,  slimy  things. 
A  crocodile  that  hath  an  evil  eye.          [Crosses  herself. 
And  dust,  ye  Saints  !  but  here  's  a  long  day's  work. 
{Lifts  a  bell  glass  from  a  small  Venice  goblet  containing 
a  transparent  fluid. 

Around  the  rim  twin  serpents  writhe  in  coils. 

[Reads  the  inscription  below  them. 

Ex  morte  vitam.     Life  is  child  of  death. 

This  must  be  it,  —  the  draught  to  make  man  young  : 

Now  should  I  drink  it,  't  were  a  merry  jest, 

To  find  myself  a  baby  tumbling  round, 

Hungry  for  mother's  milk.     Not  I,  indeed. 

[Empties  cup  on  the  floor,  and  refills  it  with  -water .  Blows 
out  the  light  and  veils  herself. 

The  moon  is  quite  enough.     Will  he  be  long  ? 
Now,  kindly  uncle,  for  this  pretty  play. 

[She  conceals  herself  in  a  corner.    Enter  Uberto. 


32  THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH. 

UBKRTO. 

At  last,  't  is  near.     The  stairs  my  constant  feet 
Have  worn  with  many  steps  more  toilsome  grow. 
The  hounds  of  time  are  on  their  panting  prey ; 
I  wait  no  longer.     No  man  owns  to-morrow. 
To-morrow  is  the  fool's  to-day.     Ah,  soon 
I  shall  go  gaily  tripping  down  the  hill, 
Glad  as  a  springtide  swallow  on  the  wing, 
A  man  new  born.     Yes,  this  is  nearest  death. 
Why  should  I  falter  here  ?     We  both  are  old. 
Soon  in  the  common  way  our  steps  would  part. 
And  to  be  young ;  to  feel  the  sinews  supple, 
Eye,  ear,  and  motion  quick,  the  brain  all  life,  — 
The  visions  of  my  manhood  round  me  whirl, 
White  limbs,  red  lips,  and  love's  delirious  dream, 
The  passion  kiss  of  wine,  the  idle  hours 
Unmissed  from  youth's  abounding  heritage. 
Off,  off,  ye  brutal  years  that  gnaw  our  age  ! 
Come,  joy  !  come,  life  !  —  life  at  the  full  of  flood  ! 
What  wonder  that  my  head  swims  dizzily  ? 

[Pautes. 

Birth  is  not  ours.     We  are,  and  that  is  all. 
Death  is  not  ours.     We  die,  and  that  is  all. 
This  stranger  birth  that  waits  my  trembling  grasp,  — 
Ay,  this  is  mine  alone.     The  herd  of  men 
Are  born  and  die.  [  Takes  the  hour-floss. 

This  none  can  share  with  me. 
The  silent  planets  shine  upon  the  hour. 
Swift  waste  the  sands.     So  much  of  age  is  left. 


THE   CUP   OF   YOUTH.  33 

Uncounted  memories  of  things  long  lost 
Leap  to  my  view,  as  if  to  one  who  stands 
Beside  the  waif-thronged  surges  of  the  deep, 
And  sees  its  dead  roll  passive  to  his  feet, 
Its  pearls,  its  weeds,  its  wrecks. 

So  let  it  end. 

{Fills  up  the  glass  with  wine. 

Nor  fear,  nor  friend,  nor  love  shall  hinder  me. 

{Drinks. 

Will  it  be  swift  ?  or  will  the  change  be  like 
The  wonder  work  of  spring  ? 

\Lights  a  small  lamp,  and  examines  his  face  in  a  mirror. 

A  ghastly  face ! 
Is  this  the  earthquake  agony  of  change  ? 

\Gelosa,  still  veiled,  advances. 

GELOSA. 

Change  that  will  never  come.     You  that  would  cheat 

A  life-worn  love  of  company  to  death, 

Take  the  stern  answer  of  her  tortured  soul. 

You  drained  my  cup  of  life,  and  cast  aside 

The  poor  mean  vessel.     I,  Emilia,  stole 

Your  cup  of  life.     Mine  is  the  youth  you  craved, 

Mine  the  gay  dream  of  girlhood's  rosy  joy, 

Mine  once  again  the  wooing  lips  you  kissed 

When  you  and  I  were  young.     Ah,  sweet  is  youth  ! 

Go,  thieving  dotard,  to  a  loveless  grave ! 

[  Uberto  staggers  forward,  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand. 
3 


34  THE   CUP  OF   YOUTH. 

UBERTO. 

My  wife,  Emilia  ?     No,  no,  not  Emilia. 

GELOSA. 

Nay,  touch  me  not !     And  is  your  memory  dead  ? 
Why,  even  I  some  dim  remembrance  keep. 
Take  back  this  ring,  this  pledge  of  endless  love. 

\Uberto  receives  it. 

UBERTO. 

Her  ring  —  your  ring  —  Emilia !  —  Lost,  lost,  lost ! 
Life,  honour,  fame,  and  youth.     Emilia,  wife, 
Speak  kindlier  to  me.     Speak,  oh,  speak  again  ! 
Your  voice  is  like  an  echo  from  the  past.  — 
What  devil  taught  you  this  ?  [Advances. 

GELOSA. 

Off,  off,  old  man  ! 

What  has  a  girl  to  do  with  palsied  age  ? 
I  '11  be  a  daughter  to  your  feebleness, 
And  fetch  your  crutch,  and  set  you  in  the  sun, 
And  get  me  lovers  kin  to  me  in  years. 

UBERTO. 

Black  Satan  take  your  kindness  !     Yet  have  I 
The  strength  to  kill  you  !     You  shall  die  for  this  ! 

[Seizes  her. 

•* 

GELOSA. 
What  ?  —  feeble  fool  !  [Pushes  him  away;  he  falls. 


THE   CUP  OF  YOUTH.  35 

UBERTO. 

This  is  not  my  Emilia. 

Help,  help,  without  there  !     Help  ! 

GELOSA. 

Come  in,  —  come  in ! 
Well  have  I  fooled  a  fool  with  foolishness. 


C 


Emilia  enters. 


EMILIA. 

Ill  have  you  done,  and  cruel  I  have  been. 
Oh,  you  have  slain  my  love  ! 

GELOSA. 

Not  I,  in  truth. 

UBERTO. 

Out,  lying  baggage  !     Now  I  know  you  well. 

GELOSA. 

Come  you  with  me,  dear  mother  of  my  love. 
Leave  we  this  base  old  man.     My  husband  waits. 

EMILIA. 

Get  hence  !  I  never  loved  you.     He  knew  best. 
Pray  God  I  see  no  more  the  wicked  face 
That  cheated  him  and  me.     Begone,  I  say ! 

[Exit  Gelosa. 


THE  VIOLIN. 
SCENE,  A  hill-top  with  a  wayside  cross. 

y.  JOHAN. 

o 

Sing  sweet,  sing  sweet,  my  violin,  sing ; 

Sing  all  thy  best,  —  sing  sweet,  sing  sweet ; 
Gay  welcomes  fling  more  swift  to  bring 
The  cadence  of  her  loitering  feet. 
Ring  strong  along  thy  bounding  wires 
A  song  shall  throng  with  youth's  desires. 
Let  the  yearning  joy-notes  linger 
'Neath  the  coy,  caressing  finger, 
Till  the  swift  bow,  flitting  over, 
Dainty  as  a  doubtful  lover, 
Slyly,  shyly,  kisses  dreaming, 
Falters  o'er  the  trembling  strings, 
And  the  love-tones,  slower  streaming, 
NNFade  to  fitful  murmurings. 

Another  year  !     Ah,  fate  is  hard  ! 
Another  year !     My  hands  are  scarred 
With  rugged  toil.     The  tender  skill 


THE    VIOLIN.  37 

With  which  they  wrought  my  music's  will 

Fails  as  the  days  go  by ;  and  yet 

No  term  to  misery  is  set. 

Thou  gentle  conjurer  of  sound, 

The  one  fast  friend  my  life  has  found, 

Vain  all  thy  art ;  though  I  can  wing 

The  love-larks  from  each  leaping  string, 

And  heavenward  send  them  carolling  ; 

Bend  at  my  will  the  soul  in  prayer, 

Bid  man  or  maid  my  sorrow  share  j 

Can  stir  the  ferns  upon  the  rock, 

And  anguish  all  the  air  with  pain  ; 

Or,  velvet-voiced,  delight  to  mock 

The  fairy  footfalls  of  the  rain,  — 

It  helps  me  not.  —  Though  I  have  force 

To  thrill  the  forest  with  remorse, 

Or  torture  sound  till  every  air 

Dark  murder  hisses,  and  despair; 

And,  'mid  the  harmonies  that  flow, 

Strange  discords  riot  'neath  the  bow, 

Like  'wildered  fiends  astray  in  heaven,  — 

Alas,  alas,  why  was  it  given, 

This  useless  power  ?     My  wasted  art 

Serves  but  to  wring  a  peasant's  heart. 

ELSA. 

My  Johan,  have  you  waited  long  ? 

I  heard  your  viol's  happy  song  ; 

I  heard  it  call,  "  Come  quick,  come  fast !  " 


38  THE    VIOLIN. 

As  o'er  the  stepping-stones  I  passed. 

I  heard  it  calling,  "  Sweet,  come  fleet !  " 

As  up  I  came  among  the  wheat. 

The  birds  o'erhead  called,  "  Soon,  — come  soon  !  " 

I  think  they  know  its  pretty  tune. 

What,  sad  again,  and  ever  sad  ? 

Play,  Johan,  play  !     'T  is  eventide  ; 

The  bells  ring  out  the  story  glad 

How  came  her  joy  to  Mary's  side. 

JOHAN. 

I  cannot.     Better  had  I  stayed 

In  yonder  convent's  tranquil  shade, 

At  hopeless  peace.    They  meant  it  well 

Who  bade  me  be  a  priest.     The  cell, 

The  fast,  dead  prayers,  a  palsied  life, 

I  fought  or  bent  to,  till  the  strife 

O'ermastered  patience.    None  too  late 

I  fled  beyond  their  cursed  gate  ; 

And  free  was  I  as  birds  are  free 

To  fly,  and  yet  at  liberty, 

Like  them,  to  quench  no  single  note 

That  trembles  in  the  eager  throat. 
1  What  slavery  sweet  to  feel  within 
/  The  song  which  not  to  sing  is  sin  ! 

If  He  at  whose  divine  decree 

These  hands  interpret  Him  can  be 

So  careless  of  the  gift  He  gave, 

What  has  He  left  me  but  the  grave  ? 


THE    KJOLIN.  39 


I  plough,  I  dig ;  far  through  the  years 
I  see  myself  the  slave  of  tears,  — 
I  that  have  dreamed  of  love  and  fame, 
A  village  boor,  without  a  name. 
Last  week  the  young  duke  opened  wide, 
To  please  the  poor,  his  garden's  pride. 
There,  wandering,  I  saw  withal 
The  nectarines  rotting  on  the  wall, 
The  tumbling  grapes  caught  up  with  thread, 
The  dead-ripe  figs  hung  overhead, 
The  fattening  peaches  swung  in  nets. 
What  woman's  starving  baby  gets 
One  half  the  care  that  saves  these  pets  ? 
Sharp,  sharp  the  lesson.     Break,  sad  heart, 
Or  learn  to  know  the  poor  man's  art,  — 
*»  The  art  to  bear  with  patience  meek 
The  blow  upon  the  other  cheek. 
How  shall  I  bear  it  ?     I  could  steal, 
Cheat,  for  this  chance.     You  only  feel, 
And  you  alone,  how  hard  the  toil 
That  bends  me  o'er  the  silent  soil, 
And  you  alone  what  wild  desires 
Await  a  larger  life  ;  what  fires 
Of  wordless  anguish  burn  unguessed, 
To  think,  —  be  sure,  —  that  unexpressed, — 
A  serf,  a  boor,  —  my  soul  has  here 
A  gift  the  waiting  world  holds  dear. 
Old  violin,  comrade  of  the  hours 
That  labour  spares,  what  music-flowers, 


4O  THE    VIOLIN. 

What  whispers  wild,  what  visions  bright, 
Thy  friendship  brings  the  tired  night ! 
And  yet,  like  one  who,  sick  with  sin, 
Would  murder  love  he  cannot  win, 
Twice  on  the  bridge,  at  night,  I  stood, 
To  cast  thee  in  the  wrecking  flood. 
But  when  a  last  farewell  I  sung 
Too  stern  a  pang  my  bosom  wrung ; 
I  could  not  drown  the  dreams  that  crave 
Expression's  life.     Best  were  the  grave. 

ELSA. 

Yet  that  were  sin  !     Could  I  but  give 
My  life  to  help  your  art  to  live  ! 
The  Alp-horn  calls ;  I  cannot  stay. 
One  kiss.     Ah,  Johan,  wait  and  pray. 

[She  sees  a  purse  in  the  road. 

A  purse  ! 

JOHAN. 
I  pray  it  be  not  thin. 

ELSA. 

Nay,  touch  it  not.     It  lies  within 
The  shadow  of  the  cross.8     'T  is  sin. 
Who  taketh  but  a  flower  or  stone 
Where  that  holy  shade  is  thrown 
Is  cursed  to  death.     His  dearest  prayer, 
Fluttering  like  a  prisoned  bird, 


THE    VIOLIN.  41 

Never  wins  the  happy  air, 
Beats  against  the  painted  saints, 
At  the  altar  hopeless  faints, 
Never,  never  to  be  heard. 

JOHAN. 

The  ban  is  off,  —  the  sun  is  on. 
St.  George  !  't  is  full ;  my  luck  has  won. 
Good  thirty  ducats,  gold  beside  ! 
Ho  for  my  love,  my  art,  my  bride  ! 

ELS  A. 

What,  take  at  will  another's  gold, 
For  love,  for  greed  ?     Stay,  Johan,  —  hold  ! 
The  duke  has  guests  !     You  cannot  soil 
Your  soul  with  this. 

JOHAN. 

And  did  they  toil 

To  win  this  money  ?     Out  of  earth 
Some  swarthy  bondsman  wrought  its  birth. 
His  sweat,  his  pain,  to  be  at  last 
A  wanton's  wage,  a  gambler's  cast ! 
Mine  is  it  now  to  better  end. 

ELSA. 

You  cannot  keep  it.     Johan,  friend, 
A  curse  is  on  it.     Curses  stay. 
For  gain  did  one  Lord  Christ  betray  : 


42  THE    VIOLIN. 

When  Satan  gives  another's  gold, 
So  much  of  the  Christ  is  sold. 
Blessings  come  and  heavenward  go, 
Wing-clipped  curses  bide  below. 
Thirty  ducats,  broad  and  bright,  — 
Hide  them,  Johan,  out  of  sight. 
Silver  white,  it  fetcheth  blight ! 
Gold,  gold,  is  wicked,  bold  ! 
Hear  now  the  story  mother  told  : 
Since  ever  I  was  a  little  maid 
Ghost-gray  silver  makes  me  afraid. 

Zillah's  son,  great  Tubal  Cain, 
Deep  he  digged  in  the  earth, 
Where  strong  iron  hath  its  birth, 
Till  the  hurt  earth  sobbed  with  pain. 
Little  recked  he,  Tubal  Cain. 
The  sword  and  the  ploughshare 
Out  of  iron  he  forged  with  care ; 
Brass  and  copper  red  he  found 
In  their  coffins  underground. 
Then  Lord  Satan  hired  he 
To  dig  to  all  eternity. 
Tore  he  from  the  broken  mould 
Moon-white  silver,  sun-red  gold. 
On  the  blessed  Sabbath  morn, 
Tubal  Cain,  with  laugh  and  scorn, 
Tortured  from  the  silver  white 
Thirty  pieces,  broad  and  bright. 


THE    VIOLIN.  43 

Quick  were  they  and  sore  to  keep  ; 
None  who  had  them  gathered  sleep. 
Little  Joseph's  brethren  said 
They  would  dye  his  garments  red  ; 
Thirty  coins  of  Tubal  Cain 
Gat  they  for  their  brother's  pain. 
At  the  holy  city's  gate 
Joseph  and  Mary  long  did  wait ; 
Neither  corn  nor  gold  had  they 
The  cruel  Roman  tax  to  pay. 
Little  babe  Jesu  spake  aloud,  — 
Marvelled  greatly  all  the  crowd,  — 
Spake  the  child  in  Mary's  ear, 
"  Dig  in  the  sand,  and  have  no  fear." 
Deep  they  delved,  and  brought  to  light 
Thirty  pieces,  broad  and  bright. 
Foul-faced  Judas  sold  his  Lord 
For  to  have  this  devil-hoard ; 
Black-faced  Judas  had  for  gain 
The  thirty  coins  of  Tubal  Cain. 
On  the  floor  the  coins  he  spent, 
Brake  his  heart,  and  out  he  went. 
All  the  way  adown  the  hill 
Rolled  the  ducats  with  him  still ; 
Underneath  his  gallows  tree 
Danced  the  ducats  for  to  see. 
Now  they  pay  for  murder  done, 
Now  by  them  the  thief  is  won. 
Mary,  Mother,  and  every  saint 


44  THE    VIOLIN. 

Keep  me  from  the  silver  taint ! 

My  heart  from  wrong,  my  body  from  pain, 

My  soul  from  sin  like  Tubal  Cain  !  * 

JOHAN. 

The  purse  is  mine  !     No  old  monk's  tale 
Shall  stay  my  hand.     If  this  should  fail  — 
All  men  own  death.     How  shall  it  be  ? 

ELSA. 

Give  me  the  purse  !     The  purse  or  me  ? 
Am  I  so  little  worth  ? 

JOHAN. 

Take  care  ; 
I  hear  a  horse. 

Enter  horseman. 
HORSEMAN. 

Ho,  fellow,  there  ! 
Hast  seen  a  purse  ?    Just  here  it  lay. 

ELSA. 
My  Johan  found  it. 

HORSEMAN  (take I  it). 

Thanks.     Good-day. 

[Rides  away  as  a  gentleman  comes  behind  them,  hidden 
by  the  hedge. 


THE    VIOLIN.  45 

JOHAN. 

Now  is  life  over. 

ELSA. 

Never  less. 

Your  soul  is  saved.     Now,  Johan,  guess 
A  secret.     No  ?    Well,  at  the  fair 
Last  week  I  sold,  I  pledged  my  hair. 
To-morrow  I  shall  fetch  the  gold 
To  win  your  way.     Ah,  love  is  bold. 
My  father  ?     Think  you  I  shall  care  ? 
A  little  hurt  ;  less  ill  to  bear 
Than  that  worse  hurt  you  bade  me  share. 

JOHAN. 

Forgive,  forget  !     Ah,  not  again 
Your  trust  shall  fail. 


ELSA. 

Just  one  more|kiss  ; 
And  ere  your  sinless  face  I  miss, 
Take  up  the  viol.     Say  not  nay. 
The  twilight  song.     Play,  Johan,  play 
The  song  that  in  the  stillness  brings 
My  troubled  soul  from  earthly  things, 
When  the  blown  horns  the  cattle  call 
Back  to  the  shelter  of  the  stall. 


46  THE    VIOLIN. 

JOHAN. 

Come  home,  come  home. 
Not  through  the  sallow  wheat, 
Come  home,  come  home, 
Though  to  grass-tangled  feet 
The  dewy  ways  be  sweet. 
Come  home,  come  home, 
Meek  eyes  and  skins  of  silk, 
Come  home,  come  home. 
Fetch  the  clover-scented  milk, 
Come  home,  come  home. 
With  their  pails  the  maidens  wait, 
Ever  singing  at  the  gate, 
Come  home,  come  home. 
Come  ye  home  to  Mary's  wings, 
Joy  to  earth  the  angel  rings, 
Come  home,  come  home. 
Bring  your  load  of  care  and  sin, 
Lo,  she  waits  to  let  you  in, 
Come  home,  come  home. 

Stay,  stay  awhile.     Though  dear  my  art, 
More  dear  your  love.     The  tears  that  start 
I  know  are  joy.     Lo,  Seraph  wings 
Flutter  o'er  the  praying  strings. 
Hear  the  gladness  of  your  soul 
All  the  raptured  viol  thrill ; 
Viewless  hands  my  touch  control, 
Other  force  than  earthly  will. 
Purer  than  the  chant  of  saints 


THE    VIOLIN.  47 

Rings  the  anthem  of  your  heart ; 
Though  upon  your  lip  it  faints, 
Though  the  tears  your  eyelids  part, 
Angel  voices,  pure  and  strong, 
Catch  the  sweetness  of  the  song. 
Hark  !  the  silver  crash  of  cymbals ; 
Hear  the  joyous  clash  of  timbrels, 
Pouring  through  the  shadows  dim ; 
All  the  air  is  music-riven, 
And  the  organ's  stately  hymn 
Thunders  to  the  vault  of  heaven. 
Murmurs,  whispers,  sad,  mysterious, 
Language  of  another  sphere, 
Faint  and  solemn,  tender,  serious, 
Wander  to  my  listening  ear. 

Enter  gentleman. 
GENTLEMAN. 

A  poet-lover  !     Did  you  find  my  purse  ? 

JOHAN. 

Ay;  and  had  kept  it,  too,  —  or  worse,  — 
Except  for  her. 

GENTLEMAN. 

Would  Eve  had  stayed 
As  honest  as  your  blushing  maid  ! 
I  always  thought  the  story  queer, 
Would  like  that  poor  snake's  tale  to  hear. 


48  THE    VIOLIN. 

Sometimes  I  fancy  Madam  Eve 

Tempted  the  Tempter  to  deceive. 

I  heard  you  tell  a  pretty  tale 

About  some  yellow  hair  for  sale. 

Will  sell  it  now  !     Say,  gold  for  gold  ! 

Let 's  see  the  goods.  [Pulls  out  the  comb. 

'T  is  worth,  well  sold, 
A  hundred  ducats. 

JOHAN. 

No,  my  lord, 

'T  is  not  for  sale.     No  miser's  hoard 
Could  buy  it. 

GENTLEMAN. 

Say  two  hundred,  then  ; 
A  kiss  to  boot.     I  know  of  men 
Would  ask  for  six. 

ELSA. 
'T  is  yours,  —  't  was  mine  ! 

GENTLEMAN. 

Keep  gold,  keep  hair.     Too  proudly  shine 
Those  locks  above  a  heart  of  gold 
For  me  to  part  them.     When  you  're  old, 
And  you  have  babes  and  he  has  fame, 
Teach  in  their  prayers  the  wild  duke's  name. 
And  you  who  thought  a  purse  to  keep, 


THE   VIOLIN.  49 

Within  that  battered  violin  sleep  — 
Ah,  but  I  heard  —  all  wealth  and  power 
Man  craves  on  earth. ^In  some  full  hour, 
When  heaven  is  nearest,  make  for  me 
One  golden  fugue,  to  live  and  be 
Remembered  when  the  morrow's  light 
Is  gone  for  us-^  Good-night,  good-night. 
4 


MY   CHATEAUX   IN   SPAIN. 

Ho,  joyous  friend  with  beard  of  brown  ! 

A  half  hour  back  't  was  gray  ; 

A  half  hour  back  you  wore  a  frown, 

But  now  the  world  looks  gay. 

For  here  the  mirror's  courtly  grace 

Cheats  you  with  a  youthful  face, 

And  here  the  poet  clock  of  time 

Each  happy  minute  counts  in  rhyme  ; 

And  here  the  roses  never  die, 

And  "  Yes  "  is  here  love's  sole  reply. 

What  gladder  land  can  any  gain 

Than  this  my  noble  realm  of  Spain  ? 

But  come  with  me,  for  I  am  one 

Hidalgo-born  of  Aragon  ; 

I  will  show  you  why  I  choose 

Thus  to  live  in  Andalouse. 

Across  the  terrace,  up  the  stair, 

Our  steps  shall  wander  to  and  fro 

Where  pensive  stand  the  statues  fair, 

And  murmur  songs  of  long  ago. 

Or  will  you  see  my  pictures  old, 

The  landscapes  hung  for  my  delight 

In  window-frames  of  fretted  gold, 


MY  CHATEAUX  IN  SPAIN.  51 

Where,  glowing,  shines  in  colour  bright 

That  Claude  of  mine  at  full  of  noon, 

When  the  strong  passion-throb  of  June 

Stirs  bird  and  leaf,  and  everywhere 

The  world  is  one  gay  love  affair  ? 

Or  shall  we  linger,  looking  west, 

Just  when  my  Turner 's  at  its  best, 
I  To  watch  the  cold  stars,  one  by  one, 
I   Crawl  to  the  embers  of  the  sun, 

Whilst  all  the  gray  Sierra  snows 

Are  ruddy  with  the  twilight  rose  ? 

Believe  me,  artists  there  are  none 

Like  those  of  mine  in  Aragon  ; 

Nor  painter  would  I  care  to  choose 

Beside  the  sun  of  Andalouse. 

Or  shall  we  part  the  shining  leaves 

My  vines  droop  downward  from  the  eaves, 

And  see,  amidst  the  sombre  pines, 
-|The  maiden  take  a  shameless  kiss  ? 
I  Around  his  neck  her  white  arm  twines, 
,  And  still  is  sweet  their  changeless  bliss. 

I  know  she  cannot  aught  refuse, 

For  that 's  the  law  in  Andalouse, 

And  ever  'neath  this  happy  sun 

There  is  no  sin  in  Aragon. 

Or  shall  we  cast  yon  casement  wide, 

And  see  the  knights  before  us  ride, 

The  charging  Cid,  the  Moors  that  flee  ? 

Grim  although  the  battles  be 


52  MY  CHATEAUX  IN  SPAIN. 


; 


That  through  my  window-frames  I  see, 
No  death  is  there,  nor  any  pain, 
Because  on  my  estates  in  Spain 
All  passions  gaily  run  their  course, 
But  lack  the  shadow-fiend  remorse. 
Something  't  is  to  make  one  vain 
Thus  to  be  grandee  of  Spain  ; 
For  the  wine  of  Andalouse 
All  the  world  a  man  might  lose, 
Could  he  see  what  rosy  shapes 
Trample  out  my  Spanish  grapes, 
Know  how  pink  the  feet  that  bruise 
My  gold-green  grapes  of  Andalouse. 
Ah,  but  if  you  're  not  a  don, 
Drink  no  wine  of  Aragon. 
Dreamland  loves  and  elfin  flavours, 
Gay  romances,  fairy  favours, 
Moonlit  mists  and  glad  confusions, 
Youth's  brief  mystery  of  delusions, 
Racing,  chasing,  haunt  the  brain 
Of  him  who  drinks  this  wine  of  Spain. 
Where  the  quarterings  were  won 
That  make  of  me  a  Spanish  don 
No  one  asks  in  Aragon. 
Never  blood  of  Bourbon  grew 
So  magnificently  blue  ; 
Blood  have  I  that  once  was  Dante's, 
Kinsman  am  I  of  Cervantes. 
Come  and  see  what  nobles  fine 


MY  CHATEAUX  IN  SPAIN.  53 

Make  my  proud  ancestral  line  : 
In  my  gallery  set  apart, 
Lo  where  art  interprets  art. 
Yes,  you  needs  must  like  it  well,  — 
Shakespeare's  face  by  Raphael. 
Ah,  't  is  very  nobly  done, 
But  that 's  the  air  of  Aragon. 
He  left  me  that  which  till  life  ends 
Is  surely  mine,  —  the  best  of  friends ; 
And  chiefly  one,  if  you  would  know, 
I  love  of  all,  Mercutio. 
Velasquez  ?     Ay,  he  knew  a  man, 
And  well  he  drew  my  Puritan, 
With  eyes  too  full  of  heaven's  light 
To  dream  our  day  as  aught  but  night. 
If  my  soul  stirs  swift  at  wrong, 
This  sire  made  that  instinct  strong. 
Da  Vinci  touched  with  love  the  face 
That  keeps  for  me  young  Surrey's  grace. 
And  that,  —  ah,  that  is  one  to  like, 
My  kinsman  Sidney,  by  Vandyke. 
Some  words  he  gave,  of  which  bereft 
My  life  were  poorer.     There  to  left 
Are  they  whose  rills  of  English  song 
Unto  my  royal  blood  belong. 
For  poet,  painter,  priest,  and  lay 
Went  to  make  my  Spanish  clay  ; 
And  here  away  in  Andalouse, 
Whatever  mood  my  soul  may  choose, 


54  MY  CHATEAUX  IN  SPAIN. 

The  poet's  joy,  the  soldier's  force, 
Finds  for  me  its  parent  source 
Where,  along  the  pictured  wall, 
Hero  voices  on  me  call, 
With  the  falling  of  the  dews, 
In  Aragon  or  Andalouse, 
When  the  mystic  shadows  troop, 
When  my  fairy  flowers  droop, 
And  the  joyous  day  is  done 
In  Andalouse  or  Aragon. 
May  27,  1888. 


1 


THE  TOMBS   OF  THE   REGICIDES.5 

LUDLOW  AND   BOUGHTON. 

ALONE  on  the  vine-covered  hillside, 

Set  gray  'gainst  the  ivy-clad  walnuts, 

Stands,  sombre  as  Calvin,  and  barren 

Of  crucifix,  altar,  and  picture, 

The  church  of  St.  Martin.     A  stranger, 

I  stood  where  the  pride  of  its  arches 

Looks  scorn  on  the  Puritan's  sadness. 

Not  prouder  for  Switzerland's  annals 

The  glory  of  Morat  or  Sempach 

Than  these  darkened  tablets  that  tell  us 

How  gladly  for  Ludlow  and  Boughton 

She  lifted  the  shield  of  protection, 

How  sternly  she  answered  the  summons 

To  render  her  guests  to  the  headsman. 

The  parents  that  gave  their  true  soul-life 

Were  England  and  Freedom.     Ah,  surely 

With  courage  and  conscience  they  honoured 

That  parentage  costly  of  sorrow, 

And  did  the  just  deed  and  abided. 

Long,  long  were  the  days  that  God  gave  them 


56  THE   TOMBS  OF  THE  REGICIDES. 

With  friendships  and  peace  in  this  refuge, 
Where  sadly  they  yearned  for  the  home-land, 
And  saw  their  great  Oliver's  England 
Bowed  low  in  the  dust  of  dishonour. 
August  19, 1888. 


CERVANTES.6 

THERE  are  who  gather  with  decisive  power 
The  mantle  of  contentment  round  their  souls, 
And  face  with  strange  serenity  the  hour 
Of  pain,  or  grief,  or  any  storm  that  rolls 
Destruction  o'er  the  tender  joys  of  life. 

There  are  who  some  great  quest  of  heart  or  brain 
Keep  even-poised,  whatever  fate  the  years 
May  fetch  to  mock  with  lesser  loss  or  gain, 
And  find  brief  joy  in  smiles,  small  grief  in  tears, 
And  tranquil  take  the  hurts  of  human  strife. 

A  few  there  be  who,  spendthrift  heirs  of  mirth 
Immortal,  mock  the  insolence  of  fate, 
And  with  a  breath  of  jesting  round  the  earth 
Ripple  men's  cheeks  with  smiles,  and  gay,  elate, 
Sit  ever  in  the  sunshine  of  their  mood. 

Oh,  royal  master  of  all  merry  chords, 

Of  every  note  in  mirth's  delightful  scale, 

To  thee  was  spared  no  pang  that  earth  affords, 

Nor  any  woe  of  sorrow's  endless  tale,  — 

Want,  prison,  wounds,  all  that  has  man  subdued ; 


58  CERVANTES. 

But,  light  of  soul,  as  if  all  life  were  joy, 
Forever  armed  with  humour's  shining  mail, 
True-hearted,  gallant,  free  from  scorn's  alloy, 
When  life  was  beggared  of  its  best,  and  frail 
Grew  hope,  't  is  said  thou  still  wert  lord  of  smiles. 

This  could  I  wish  ;  and  yet  it  well  may  be 
Thy  heart  smiled  not,  for  wit,  like  fairy  gold, 
Mayhap  won  naught  for  him  who  scattered  glee, 
No  help  for  him  by  whom  the  jest  was  told, — 
The  world's  sad  fool,  whose  ever-ready  wiles 

Rang  the  glad  bells  of  laughter  down  the  years, 
And  cheated  pain  with  merry  mysteries, 
And  from  a  prison  cell,  the  twins  of  tears, 
Sent  forth  his  Don  and  Squire  to  win  at  ease 
Such  joy  of  mirth  as  his  could  never  be. 

Ah,  who  can  say  !    His  latest  day  of  pain 

Took  Shakespeare's  kindred  soul.     I  trust  they  met 

Where  smiles  are  frequent,  and  the  saddest  gain 

What  earth  denies,  the  privilege  to  forget 

"  The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely." 

But  where  he  sleeps,  the  land  which  gave  him  birth, 
And  gave  no  more  to  him,  its  greatest  child, 
Knows  not  to-day.     Some  levelled  heap  of  earth, 
Some  nameless  stone,  lies  o'er  him  who  beguiled 
So  many  a  heart  from  thinking  on  its  pain. 


CERVANTES.  59 

Yet  I  can  fancy  that  at  morning  there 
The  birds  sing  gladder,  and  at  evening  still 
The  peasant,  resting  from  his  day  of  care, 
Goes  joyous  thence  with  some  mysterious  thrill 
Of  lightsome  mirth,  whose  cause  he  seeks  in  vain. 
October,  1888. 


SUNSET  AT   SEA. 

AT  eve,  by  the  Arno,  a  thought-king 

Stood  flushed  with  the  wonder  of  knowing  — 

He  first  of  all  creatures,  he  only  — 

How  still  stands  God's  sun  ;  how  earth  ever 

Trails  spinning  behind  its  swift  motion 

"I  Unending  forevers  of  sunsets. 
Grew  the  thought  through  a  childhood  of  groping, 
The  thought  that  last  year  was  God's  only  ? 
Did  it  smite,  like  the  levin,  at  midnight 
A  brain  that  was  darkened  with  thinking, 
Strong,  terrible,  joyful,  and  brilliant, 
A  splendour  that  fiercely  illumines 
And  troubles  the  wondering  vision 
With  doubt  of  the  truth  it  revealeth  ? 
Was  it  born  as  between  two  quick  heart-throbs, 
Surging  up  from  the  ever-unquestioned 
To  the  questioning  sight  of  the  conscious, 
A  thought  that  should  gather  and  grow,  till, 
Like  billows  an  earthquake  has  builded, 
It  swept  o'er  the  landmarks  of  knowledge, 

"|  And  crumbled  the  distant  horizon  ? 
Passed  he  then  to  the  street  and  the  market, 


SUMSE T  AT  SEA.  6 1 

Giving  back  the  '  good-evens  '  that  greeted, 
Still  gentle,  and  childlike,  and  humble, 
Aware  not  his  forehead  bore  proudly 
The  terrible  crown  of  the  thought-king  ? 
June,  1888. 


TO  THE   SEA  AT   DAWN. 

THE  morn  exults  in  new-born  light 
And,  black  athwart  its  gold, 
The  broken  fragments  of  the  night 
Rock  in  their  cradles  old. 

Ho,  sturdy  wooer  of  the  great ! 
What  need  to  mock  thy  power 
With  feeble  woman-tales  that  prate 
Of  manhood's  yielding  hour? 

The  Norseland  fury  in  us  craves 

To  feel  thy  billows  leap  ; 

Claims  kinship  with  yon  bounding  waves, 

Calls  cousin  with  the  deep. 

The  vigour  of  thy  strident  song, 
Thy  rhythmic  marches  gay, 
Rang  music  to  thy  kinsmen  strong 
Where'er  their  hero  way  : 

As  when,  upon  the  Spaniards'  flight, 
Was  loosed  thy  stormiest  power 


TO   THE  SEA   AT  DAWN.  63 

For  God  and  right  and  England's  might, 
In  England's  darkest  hour  ; 

Or  when  across  the  death-watched  wave 
Our  stern  sea  eagle  swooped, 
And  where  the  bravest  led  the  brave 
His  fierce  young  eaglets  trooped. 

O  poet,  lord  of  many  a  mood, 
Like  him  of  Arthur's  hall, 
That  knight  so  bold  in  battle  rude, 
So  soft  at  woman's  call, 

Thy  vassal  waves  this  summer  morn, 
Far  o'er  thy  weary  length, 
Freight  with  the  strength  of  sweetness  born 
The  sweetness  born  of  strength ; 

And  let  them  whisper  love  for  me 
By  one  remembered  beach,  — 
Love  stronger  than  thy  wildest  sea, 
Kind  as  thy  gentlest  speech. 
May  30,  1888. 


SUNSET  AT   SEA. 

ADOWN  the  thronged  deck  of  the  steamer 
The  babble  of  voices  fails  slowly, 
As  if  unseen  fingers  of  silence 
Were  laid  on  the  lips  of  the  speakers. 
A  blazon  of  azure-flecked  crimson, 
White-starred  with  the  quick-leaping  foam-jets, 
Falls  swift  on  the  shuddering  ocean  ; 
While  high  overhead  to  the  zenith 
Imperious  splendours  of  scarlet 
Flare  strange,  such  as  up  from  the  darkness 
That  fell  on  Gethsemane's  stillness 
/Rose  red  with  the  anguish  of  nature.7 
Slow  fadeth  the  colour  that  troubles 
The  soul  with  mysterious  terror, 
Till  unto  the  sky  and  the  waters 
Is  born  the  cool  quiet  of  purples 
That  calm  the  stirred  heart  of  the  seer. 
The  peace  which  is  past  understanding, 
Which  only  the  heart  can  interpret, 
Comes  clad  in  the  shadows  of  twilight 
With  meanings  elusive  and  tender, 
That  die  at  the  mere  touch  of  thought,  and 
Are  frail  as  the  firstlings  of  April. 


SUNSET  AT  SEA.  65 

The  peace  which  is  past  understanding : 
Ethereal,  viewless,  and  solemn, 
Mysterious  gift  of  the  evening, 
A  love  dew  that  comes,  how  we  know  not, 
And  freshens  all  life,  how  we  wist  not ; 
Till  down  to  the  paling  horizon 
Are  poured  the  night  shadows,  while  ever 
The  huge  striving  bulk  of  the  steamer 
Hurls  on  through  the  dark  and  the  ocean. 
June  I,  1888.  \\ 

5 


FORGET-ME-NOTS. 

ON   THE  ALBULA  PASS. 

THEY  peep  above  the  boulders  gray, 
Stand  dark  against  the  snows, 
Leap  modest  from  the  billow's  kiss 
Gray  Albula  bestows. 

They  bend  beneath  the  cloaking  mist, 
Crowd  every  open  spot, 
And  murmur  with  assurance  gay 
One  phrase,  "  Forget  me  not" 

The  gentle  chorus  rises  still 
Unanimously  sweet ; 
They  seem  to  leave  their  quiet  nooks, 
And  cluster  round  my  feet. 

Forget  thee  not  ?    Yet  how  to  learn 
The  very  ample  art 
To  love  an  army  corps  of  maids, 
All  bidding  for  my  heart ! 

There  may  be  who  would  think  those  eyes, 
So  constant  and  so  true, 


FORGET-ME-NOTS.  67 

To  be  —  forgive  the  daring  thought  — 
Monotonously  blue. 

And  then,  if  all  these  myriad  lips 
To  but  one  song  are  set, 
There  might  be  luxury  in  the  power 
A  little  to  forget. 

No  gay  arithmetic  of  love 
Could  solve  this  puzzling  sum, 
Nor  leave  a  Mormon  lover  aught 
But  resolutely  dumb  j 

For  all  historic  cases  fail 

Before  my  hopeless  lot, 

When  fifty  thousand  viewless  tongues 

Say  just  "  Forget  me  not" 

Nor  yet  am  I  the  first  or  last 
By  whom  their  cry  is  heard  ; 
They  breathe  it  to  the  careless  wind, 
They  cast  it  to  the  bird. 

Who  gave  these  mountain-maids  their  song  ? 
What  lover's  murmured  thought 
Unnumbered  centuries  ago 
Their  tender  legend  taught  ? 


68  FORGET-ME-NOTS. 

Or  was  it  from  some  wounded  soul 

In  torture  and  despair 

They  learned  these  faint,  appealing  words, 

The  wail  of  human  prayer  ? 

I  know  not.     Love  is  boundless,  large  ; 

Past  Albula's  cloud-towers 

A  joyous  shaft  of  sunshine  falls 

On  me  and  on  the  flowers. 

Mysterious  vestals  of  the  hill, 
In  pretty  council  met, 
Pray  teach  me  now  that  wiser  art, 
How  easiest  to  forget. 

The  song  is  hushed,  the  drooping  mist 
Shrouds  every  silent  form, 
And  thoughtful  down  the  lonely  pass 
I  move  amid  the  storm. 
July  8,  1888. 


MINERVA  MEDICA. 

VERSES  READ  AT  THE  DINNER  COMMEMORATIVE  OF  THE 
FIFTIETH  YEAR  OF  THE  DOCTORATE  OF  D.  HAYES 
AGNEW,  M.  D.,  APRIL  6,  1888. 

GOOD  CHAIRMAN,  BROTHERS,  FRIENDS,  AND  GUESTS,  — 

all  ye  who  come  with  praise 
To  honour  for  our  ancient  guild  a  life  of  blameless 

days, 

If  from  the  well-worn  road  of  toil  I  step  aside  to  find 
A  poet's  roses  for  the  wreath  your  kindly  wishes  bind, 
Be  certain  that  their  fragrance  types,  amid  your  laurel 

leaves, 
The  gentle  love  a  tender  heart  in  duty's  chaplet  weaves. 

I  can't  exactly  set  the  date, — the  Chairman  he  will 
know,  — 

But  it  was  on  a  chilly  night,  some  month  or  two  ago. 

Within,  the  back-log  warmed  my  toes  ;  without,  the 
frozen  rain, 

Storm-driven  by  the  angry  wind,  clashed  on  my  win 
dow-pane. 

I  lit  a  pipe,  stirred  up  the  fire,  and,  dry  with  thirst  for 
knowledge, 


70  MINERVA   MEDIC  A. 

Plunged  headlong  in  an  essay  by  a  Fellow  of  the  Col 
lege. 

But,  sir,  I  've  often  seen  of  late  that  this  especial  thirst 

Is  not  of  all  its  varied  forms  the  keenest  nor  the  worst. 

At  all  events,  that  gentleman  —  that  pleasant  College 
Fellow  — 

He  must  have  been  of  all  of  us  the  juiciest  and  most 
mellow. 

You  ask  his  name,  degree,  and  fame ;  you  want  to 
know  that  rare  man  ? 

It  was  n't  you,  —  nor  you,  —  nor  you,  —  no,  sir,  't  was 
not  the  Chairman  1 

For  minutes  ten  I  drank  of  him ;  quenched  was  my 
ardent  thirst ; 

Another  minute,  and  ray  veins  with  knowledge,  sir,  had 
burst ; 

AJmoment  more,  my  head  fell  back,  my  lazy  eyelids 
closed, 

And  on  my  lap  that  Fellow's  book  at  equal  peace  re 
posed. 

Then  I  remembered  me  the  night  that  essay  first  was 
read, 

And  how  we  thought  it  could  n't  all  have  come  from 
one  man's  head. 

At'nine  the  College  heard  a  snore  and  saw  the  Chair 
man  start,  — 

A  snore  as  of  an  actor  shy  rehearsing  for  his  part. 

At  ten,  a  shameless  chorus  around  the  hall  had  run, 

The  Chairman  dreamed  a  feeble  joke,  and  said  the 
noes  had  won. 


MINERVA   ME DIC A.  71 

At  twelve  the  Treasurer  fell  asleep,  the  wakeful  Cen 
sors  slumbered, 

The  Secretary's  minutes  grew  to  hours  quite  unnum 
bered. 

At  six  A.  M.  that  Fellow  paused,  perchance  a  page  to 
turn, 

And  up  I  got,  and  cried,  "  I  move  the  College  do  ad 
journ  ! " 

They  did  n't,  sir ;  they  sat  all  day.  It  made  my  flesh 
to  creep. 

All  night  they  sat ;  —  that  could  n't  be.  Goodness  ! 
was  I  asleep  ? 

Was  I  asleep?  With  less  effect  that  Fellow  might 
have  tried 

Codeia,  Morphia,  Urethan,  Chloral,  Paraldehyde. 

In  vain  my  servant  called  aloud,  "  Sir,  here  's  a  solemn 
letter 

To  say  they  want  a  song  from  you,  for  lack  of  some 
one  better. 

The  Chairman  says  his  man  will  wait,  while  you  sit 
down  and  write  ; 

He  says  he 's  not  in  any  haste,  —  and  make  it  some 
thing  light ; 

He  says  you  need  n't  vex  yourself  to  try  to  be  effulgent, 

Because,  he  says,  champagne  enough  will  keep  them 
all  indulgent." 

I  slept  —  at  least  I  think  I  slept  —  an  hour  by  estima 
tion, 

But  if  I  slept,  I  must  have  had  unconscious  cerebra 
tion 


72  MINERVA  MEDIC  A. 

For  on  my  desk,  the  morrow  morn,  I  found  this  or 
dered  verse ; 

Pray  take  it  as  you  take  your  wife,  — '  for  better  or 
for  worse.' 

A  golden  wedding :  fifty  earnest  years 

This  spring-tide  day  from  that  do  sadly  part, 

When,  'mid  a  learned  throng,  one  shy,  grave  lad, 
Half  conscious,  won  the  Mistress  of  our  Art. 

Still  at  his  side  the  tranquil  goddess  stood, 
Unseen  of  men,  and  claimed  the  student  boy ; 

Touched  with  her  cool,  sweet  lips  his  ruddy  cheek, 
And  bade  him  follow  her  through  grief  and  joy. 

"  Be  mine,"  she  whispered  in  his  startled  ear, 
"  Be  mine  to-day,  as  Pare'  once  was  mine  ; 
Like  Hunter  mine,  and  all  who  nobly  won 
The  fadeless  honours  of  that  shining  line. 

"  Be  mine,"  she  said,  "  the  calm  of  honest  eyes, 

The  steadfast  forehead,  and  the  constant  soul, 
Mine  the  firm  heart  on  simple  duty  bent, 
And  mine  the  manly  gift  of  self-control. 

"  Not  in  my  service  is  the  harvest  won 

That  gilds  the  child  of  barter  and  of  trade ; 
That  steady  hand,  that  ever-pitying  touch, 
Not  in  my  helping  shall  be  thus  repaid 


MINERVA  MED  1C  A.  73 

"  But  I  will  take  you  where  the  great  have  gone, 
And  I  will  set  your  feet  in  honour's  ways  ; 

Friends  I  will  give,  and  length  of  crowded  years, 
And  crown  your  manhood  with  a  nation's  praise. 

"  These  will  I  give,  and  more  ;  the  poor  man's  home, 
The  anguished  sufferer  in  the  clutch  of  pain, 

The  camp,  the  field,  the  long,  sad,  waiting  ward,  ^ 
Watch  for  your  kindly  face,  nor  watch  in  vain  ; 

"  For,  as  the  sculptor  years  shall  chisel  deep 
The  lines  of  pity  'neath  the  brow  of  thought, 

Below  your  whitening  hair  the  hurt  shall  read 

How  well  you  learned  what  I  my  best  have  taught." 

>^ 

The  busy  footsteps  of  your  toiling  stand 
Upon  the  noisy  century's  sharp  divide, 

And  at  your  side,  to-night,  I  see  her  still, 
The  gracious  woman,  strong  and  tender-eyed. 

O  stately  Mistress  of  our  sacred  Art, 

Changeless  and  beautiful  and  wise  and  brave, 

Full  fifty  years  have  gone  since  first  your  lips 
To  noblest  uses  pledged  that  forehead  grave. 

As  round  the  board  our  merry  glasses  rang, 
His  golden-wedding  chimes  I  heard  to-night ; 

We  know  its  offspring ;  lo,  from  sea  to  sea 
His  pupil  children  bless  his  living  light. 


74  MINERVA  ME DIC A. 

What  be  the  marriage-gifts  that  we  can  give  ? 

What  lacks  he  that  on  well-used  years  attends  ? 
All  that  we  have  to  give  are  his  to-day,  — 

Love,  honour,  and  obedience,  troops  of  friends. 


NOTES. 


NOTE  i. 

I  have  accepted  the  popular  version  of  Galileo's  famous  call 
to  Rome  to  answer  for  his  intellectual  views.  Much  doubt  has 
of  late  been  thrown  upon  the  received  story  of  the  peril  to  which 
his  visit  subjected  him 

Long  after  the  period  in  question  grave  men  of  science  held  to 
the  possibility  of  reviving  youth,  and  also  'believed  in  the  trans- 
mutability  of  metals. 

NOTE  2. 

Galileo,  trained  as  a  physician,  used  the  pendulum  as  a  mea 
surer  of  the  pulse,  causing  it  to  beat  even  time  with  any  spe 
cial  pulse  by  raising  or  lowering  the  weight  or  bob.  Thus  the 
length  of  the  pendulum  became  a  conventional  measure  of  the 
rate  of  the  pulse.  Counting  it  with  the  aid  of  a  watch,  although 
first  used  in  the  reign  of  Anne,  was  never  common  until  the  pres 
ent  century. 

That  "  frail  English  boy  "  was  William  Harvey,  the  discoverer 
of  the  circulation  of  the  blood. 

NOTE  3. 

The  belief  that  it  is  sinful  to  touch  that  which  the  shadow  of 
the  cross  falls  upon  is  a  mediaeval  fancy,  but  I  cannot  now  recall 
where  I  have  seen  it  mentioned. 

NOTE  4. 

I  am  indebted  to  Professor  T.  F.  Crane,  of  Cornell  University, 
for  the  strange  legendary  story  of  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver.  I 


76  NOTES. 

hare,  of  coarse,  taken  great  liberties  with  the  old  Latin  version, 
as  to  which  Professor  Crane  says  :  — 

"  The  legend  of  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver  is  found  only  in  Gott 
fried  of  Viterbo's  Pantheon,  a  rare  work  reprinted  in  Scriptores 
Rtrum  Germanicorttm,  Ratisbon,  1726  (ed.  Pistorius  andStoure). 
I  have  copied  it  from  M.  du  Meril,  Potsies  Populaires  Lutirus  du 
Moyen  Age,  Paris,  1847,  p.  321,  also  a  scarce  work.  I  do  not 
know  of  any  other  accessible  version,  although  the  legend  was 
copied  from  Gottfried  by  various  legend-writers  of  the  time. 
Where  Gottfried  got  it  I  cannot  tell." 

NOTE  5. 

The  regicides  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Martin,  at  Vevey,  are 
Boughton,  Ludlow,  and  Phelps.  The  tombstones  of  the  first  two 
are  visible.  Phelps  has  recently  been  commemorated  by  a  stone 
placed  upon  the  wall  by  the  American  descendants  of  his  fam 
ily,  —  the  Phelpses  of  New  England  and  New  Jersey.  Ludlow 
and  Boughton  lived  to  a  great  age  at  Vevey,  and  so,  also,  I  be 
lieve,  did  Phelps,  of  whom  less  is  known. 

NOTE  6. 

Cervantes,  who  lost  a  hand  at  Lepanto,  was  for  five  years  a 
prisoner  in  Algiers,  and  on  his  release  lived  a  life  of  sad  vicissi 
tudes,  dying  in  want  on  the  23d  of  April,  1616,  the  day  of  Shake 
speare's  death.  Where  lie  the  bones  of  the  creator  of  Don  Qui 
xote  is  wholly  unknown. 

NOTE  7. 

The  belief  that  the  sky  flushed  red  over  the  closing  moments  of 
the  crucifixion  is  another  mediaeval  fancy,  for  which  I  can  quote 
no  authority.  I  think  it  is  in  the  Golden  Legends. 


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